The Duchess of Malfi

[Exeunt Servant and Madmen.]

BOSOLA.  I am come to make thy tomb.
DUCHESS.                              Ha! my tomb!
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed,
Gasping for breath.  Dost thou perceive me sick?
BOSOLA.
Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible.
DUCHESS.  Thou art not mad, sure:  dost know me?
BOSOLA.                                           Yes.
DUCHESS.                                                Who am I?
BOSOLA. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory[115 - Receptacle.] of green mummy.[116 - A drug supposed to ooze from embalmed bodies.] What 's this flesh? a little crudded[117 - Curdled.] milk,
fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-
prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours
is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage?
Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf
of grass, and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking-glass, only
gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.
DUCHESS.  Am not I thy duchess?
BOSOLA. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit
on thy forehead (clad in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than on
a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleepest worse than if a mouse should be
forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that
breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou
wert the more unquiet bedfellow.
DUCHESS.  I am Duchess of Malfi still.
BOSOLA.  That makes thy sleep so broken:
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
DUCHESS.  Thou art very plain.
BOSOLA.  My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living;
I am a tomb-maker.
DUCHESS.  And thou comest to make my tomb?
BOSOLA.  Yes.
DUCHESS.  Let me be a little merry: – of what stuff wilt thou make it?
BOSOLA.  Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion?
DUCHESS.  Why, do we grow fantastical on our deathbed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
BOSOLA. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not
lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their
hands under their cheeks, as if they died of the tooth-ache. They
are not carved with their eyes fix'd upon the stars, but as their
minds were wholly bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem
to turn their faces.
DUCHESS.  Let me know fully therefore the effect
Of this thy dismal preparation,
This talk fit for a charnel.
BOSOLA.                       Now I shall: —

[Enter Executioners, with] a coffin, cords, and a bell

Here is a present from your princely brothers;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
DUCHESS.                    Let me see it:
I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
BOSOLA.  This is your last presence-chamber.
CARIOLA.  O my sweet lady!
DUCHESS.                    Peace; it affrights not me.
BOSOLA.  I am the common bellman
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons
The night before they suffer.
DUCHESS.                       Even now thou said'st
Thou wast a tomb-maker.
BOSOLA.                  'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification.  Listen.
Hark, now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay 's now competent:
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan, and come away.
CARIOLA.  Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas!
What will you do with my lady? – Call for help!
DUCHESS.  To whom?  To our next neighbours?  They are mad-folks.
BOSOLA.  Remove that noise.
DUCHESS.                     Farewell, Cariola.
In my last will I have not much to give:
A many hungry guests have fed upon me;
Thine will be a poor reversion.
CARIOLA.                         I will die with her.
DUCHESS.  I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.
[Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.]
Now what you please:
What death?